


Trouble in Paradise

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Snake!Crowley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-24
Updated: 2005-09-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:36:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sometimes, Aziraphale dreamed of Eden.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble in Paradise

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in 2005.

Sometimes, Aziraphale dreamed of Eden.

Even after that unpleasant business with the apple and the sword, life, as they say, went on.  Crawly went on tempting, occasionally complaining that it wasn't so simple anymore.  Aziraphale went on guarding, though it wasn't so much the gate as the humans that needed it. For all that there had been the Fall, life was pleasant.

There was the sun on his face, bright warmth on his skin.  There was the shade of the trees when it became unbearable, and there was the softness of grass beneath his feet.  There was fire in the darkness, glinting through the trees, and music when the humans learned to sing. Often, that night was clearer in his memory than Heaven.

Aziraphale lay with his eyes closed, wings outstretched, and watched the sky.  It was clear that evening, pitch-black and set with glimmering lights.  The song that drifted to his ears had something to do with the stars, praising them.  _Naming_ them.

The wind ruffled the grass, tickling his wingtips.  He sang when he was sure of the words, learning tales long into the morning.  The sky had almost begun to brighten when the tickle of the grass went still, then became something else, a slippery caress.

There was something crawling up his ankle. 

As far as Aziraphale knew, angels didn't shriek, but in the end he had to chalk it up to his body and the fact that he was startled out of his wits.  After a moment, he calmed, embarrassed, but that didn't stop the crawling or the sudden, hissing laughter.

"Very funny," Aziraphale said irritably, shaking his leg.  The serpent was halfway up his shin by now, and taking his time about it.  The scales felt smooth, rather pleasant if he gave it some thought.  He tried not to, and shook his leg again.  

"Er.  If you don't _mind_ —"

"Oh, I don't," said the serpent, too cheerfully for his lowly state.  "You're quite warm.  Cold-blooded myself, I'm afraid.  I've got to survive somehow.  Thanks for understanding."

Aziraphale sputtered, "I didn't say anything about—"

 _Oh_.  Crawly was well past his knee, gliding head-first up his thigh, slim black tongue flicking out at intervals, yellow eyes glowing in the dimness.  By now the scales were warm with the heat of Aziraphale's body, leisurely giving it back to him.

It _was_ pleasant.

Crawly hissed, sounding like one of the humans when they sighed with contentment.

"Thanksss, angel."

Aziraphale let his head fall back into the grass, closing his eyes.  "You're welcome," he said, uncertain of what he was _supposed_ to say, or if there was anything in protocol that covered this.  As far as he could remember, there wasn't.

He couldn't fathom why, but at some point he reached down to touch that smooth, strangely comforting softness, and found the serpent asleep, hissing softly at his hip.

Disoriented, Aziraphale opened his eyes and swore.

" _Bugger_."

It wasn't that he didn't enjoy dreaming when it happened, as it was part and parcel with the fact that he'd begun sleeping more often.  The trouble was that he felt flushed and sticky, too restless for his skin, and he'd never reacted like…well, like _this_ before, at least not to the dreams, and _certainly_ not in Eden.  Not to—

Crowley was spooned up behind him, arm draped loosely over his waist.

Well, all right.  But not to Crowley as a _snake_.

Aziraphale squirmed, trying to get Crowley's arm above his waist.  The demon was terribly irritable in the morning, and Aziraphale found that he couldn't bring himself to doze any later than nine.  Crowley tended to wake at any sort of stirring, and this sort, however insignificant, counted.  Aziraphale bit his lip.  Crowley's arm still rested at Aziraphale's hip, his fingers curled so that the cool, smooth nails brushed his thigh.

Aziraphale wished it would go away, but now he _definitely_ wouldn't be getting any more sleep.  Most functions of his body had always been ridiculously easy to control, even banish, but lately, this was not one of them.  Hard to reverse, it would seem.

Crowley shifted, yawning against Aziraphale's neck.

"'S too early, so thisss," he said, tugging Aziraphale to face him, "had better be good."

Under normal circumstances, Aziraphale might have said good morning and apologized for waking him, but Crowley's breath brushed his ear, and they were pressed up flush, front to front.  Crowley was nuzzling his way down Aziraphale's neck. 

When he shifted his weight and flicked his tongue like _that_ — 

Aziraphale moaned and held Crowley still, trying to catch his breath, but he was already coming, _hard_. Unlike Crowley, his problem pointedly _wasn't_ nightmares.

"Bit quick off the mark, don't you think?"  The demon sounded sleepy and confused, but his tone wasn't mocking, so that counted for something.  He touched Aziraphale's hand at his hip, then stroked cautiously from elbow to wrist.  "Angel?"

"Minute," Aziraphale gasped, face buried in Crowley's hair.  "Just…"

"For what it's worth," Crowley said, wiggling a bit, waking parts of Aziraphale that had begun to consider drifting back to sleep.  "I'm impressed."

Aziraphale let himself be kissed.  The less Crowley wanted to discuss, the better.

*        *        *

The next time it happened, Aziraphale was alone.

To make matters worse, he was awake.

While intellectually stimulating, crosswords weren't usually things to get worked up about (unless they presented a rare challenge or happened to be for competition).  This one, however, seemed to have a penchant for sensual adjectives.  Oh _dear_.

Six down had ten spaces, six letters already in place: _S—R—P—T—N—E._

Aziraphale shoved the paper aside, annoyed to discover that he'd even begun to associate the offending term with the word _sensual_. Of all the ridiculous…

Not that Crowley _wasn't_ either of those things.  He was, in fact, both, no matter what form he happened to assume.  Except for his more egregious manifestations, which Aziraphale didn't count because they weren't frequent enough to warrant it, and besides, he hated them.  Come to think of it, Crowley hated transformation _period_.

Aziraphale touched the pen to his lips, frowning.

He couldn't think of the last time that he'd seen Crowley transform, unless you _did_ count that night at Tadfield Manor, but there had been maggots involved, so that automatically disqualified the incident.  He tried to recall the last time he had seen Crowley as a serpent—no, _other_ than that blasted dream—

What Aziraphale remembered was the first time that he had seen Crowley _human_.

By dawn, the fire had burned out and the stars had gone.  Aziraphale had awakened to the sound of birds and bright, limitless blue overhead.  He remembered sitting up, wings cramped to the point of pain as he stretched them, and rubbing his eyes.

He had thought that he was alone, at least until he looked toward the trees.

"That's usually what happens," said the dark-haired young man, casually.

Aziraphale blinked.  "Happens when what?  Who—"

"When you sleep," replied the young man, slithering down from the tree branch he'd been sitting in with oddly familiar grace.  "It's not that bad, is it?"

"I suppose not," Aziraphale said, standing up and finding his legs wobbly.  So far, it wasn't exactly his idea of a good time.  His head felt sluggish.  

"And I'm sorry, dear boy, but have we met?  You don't strike me as one of their bunch," he added, waving vaguely toward the trees, "so…"

The young man was closer now, and Aziraphale could see that he had startling yellow eyes and a disconcerting smile.  "We might have," he said, studying his fingernails.  "It's difficult to tell.  Your hair's a frightful mess, so I can't be sure—"

"Oh, Lord," Aziraphale muttered, brushing a blade of grass from his forehead.

"Hello, angel," said Crawly.

Aziraphale never did finish the crossword.

*        *        *

Crowley showed up the next morning with two cups of elaborate coffee and an apologetic look on his face.  He set one of the cups down in front of Aziraphale.

"I smell cocoa," Aziraphale said, sniffing it.

"It's mocha. Chocolate _and_ coffee. Did I ever tell you I got a commendation for it?"

Aziraphale mumbled into his cup that, no, he hadn't.  The stuff was heavenly.

Grinning, Crowley leaned across the counter and kissed him, gracing the corner of Aziraphale's mouth with a familiar flick of his tongue.  "You missed a bit."

Aziraphale opened his mouth, but no sound came out.  He kissed Crowley instead, cursing that crossword puzzle to the ends of Creation and back.

Somewhere between tripping up the staircase and falling onto the mattress, Aziraphale had managed to piece together a rough picture of Crowley's past few days.  He'd been checking up on things in Glasgow, and he said that Edinburgh seemed fine.

"If you like that sort of thing," Crowley said lazily, gliding his fingers gently up Aziraphale's inner thigh.  "Your idea of city planning is a dreadful bore."

Aziraphale hummed and bit Crowley's neck, satisfied to hear him gasp.

*        *        *

There was something sad about pet shops.  Aziraphale avoided them when he could, mostly because the impulse to bring the poor creatures home was so strong that he just couldn't risk it.  Books didn't stand up well to that sort of thing.

At the moment, getting over certain disconcerting dreams was first and foremost.  Oh, it had come back, all right.  Several times.  On the other hand, Crowley was becoming something of a morning person.  Aziraphale thought maybe he could live with that.

What he couldn't live with were reactions out of nowhere, a question on his tongue that he dared not ask, because said morning person wouldn't be so happy to oblige.

Aziraphale didn't know the first thing about snakes, except that they were exotic and vaguely suspicious, and outright terrifying to some humans, especially if poisonous.  Crowley, to his knowledge, had never bothered with venom.  At least he hoped not, considering the number of times he'd been on the receiving end of those fangs.

"What are you looking for?" asked the sales clerk.

"Something small," Aziraphale said, watching her reach for the lid of one of the tanks.

The young boa was calm in his grasp, much calmer than he had expected.  It wound its way up his arm, shining black eyes and flicking tongue, then glided across his shoulders, looping around to brush the skin of his neck with its small, angular head.

"She likes you," said the clerk, beaming.

Aziraphale stroked the snake under its chin, enjoying the feel of scales against his cheek.  "And a darling she is," he said, carefully untangling himself.  "I'm sure she'll find a deserving home.  I can't thank you enough, my dear."

As distressed as the clerk was that he was leaving the boa behind, Aziraphale found that _he_ wasn't in the least.  And he was relieved, really.  The trouble wasn't snakes.

It was just serpents.

*        *        *

"Where did _that_ come from?" Crowley asked, bewildered.

Aziraphale glanced up at the birdcage briefly, then turned the page.  "I couldn't very well leave it in the window," he sighed.

Crowley stuck his finger through the bars of the cage.  The dove nipped his fingertip.

"I won't fix this one if you go stuffing it up your sleeve, got it?"

Aziraphale smiled in spite of himself, no longer able to concentrate.  "Yes, fine," he said, shutting the book.  "If it should ever come to that, I'll fix it myself."

Crowley was teasing the bird again.  "Didn't you give it a name?"

"Er, well," Aziraphale said uncertainly, standing up.  "The sales clerk wasn't sure whether it was male or female, but I said that didn't matter overmuch."

"She flirts," Crowley informed him, sucking on his fingertip.

"Then I'll just let you name her, shall I?"

"I don't have any imagination," Crowley said, turning to him, abruptly disinterested.  "Not that kind, anyway.  What are we doing here?  I came here to get you out, not sit around discussing bloody doves.  I'm not drunk enough for that.  Yet."

"Er," Aziraphale said. "Why don't we go to dinner, then?  And possibly to your place?"

Crowley raised his eyebrows.  "Only _possibly_?"

"You know what I meant," Aziraphale said helplessly.

Crowley grinned like a snake.  "Yes.  I do."

Aziraphale had been expecting the Ritz, but Crowley took them to one of those fantastic little places that he'd surely get lost looking for if he tried to find it on foot.  There was something cozy about pubs with private booths and a lot of pipe smoke.

Crowley's foot kept brushing his ankle under the table, which was distracting.

"Not up to snuff," Crowley said, poking his cake.  It turned into a crème brûlée.

"What was wrong with it?" asked Aziraphale.  He had finished his cake minutes ago.

"Too dry," Crowley said, cracking the sugar glaze with his spoon.  He took a bite, eyes closing briefly in ecstasy.  "'S good," he said, licking his lips. "Want to try some?"

Aziraphale bit his tongue, then gave up.  "Maybe later."

Crowley set the spoon down, studying at him thoughtfully.  "I'm full," he said.  "Let's go." Crowley took Aziraphale's hand and didn't let go until they reached the Bentley.

When they reached Crowley's flat, Aziraphale was disappointed when the demon told him to stay put on the sofa while he fetched some wine.  In the end, though, it was good wine, and with half a bottle in him, Crowley was _very_ affectionate.

"I think," Aziraphale said, disentangling Crowley's clumsy fingers from his shirt buttons, "we ought to sober up and go to bed."

Crowley gave him a horrified look, then started kissing Aziraphale's neck again.

"Er, I _meant_ —"

"Point taken," Crowley mumbled, and he straightened up, wincing.  "Though you've got to admit it's fun when everything's swimming like that."

"Yes, well," Aziraphale said, picking at one of his buttons, which had come loose.

Crowley stood up, tugging Aziraphale's other hand.  " _Well_?"

Bed was cool and freshly made, though not for long, and the sheets rustled against Aziraphale's skin.  He dropped his shirt on the floor with the rest of his clothes, vaguely concerned about the button.  Ones of that make were difficult to replace.

Crowley hissed and swore, apparently stuck inside his shirt.  

Aziraphale leaned back against the pillows, watching.

Crowley hissed again, and his spine tingled.

"Sodding _stupid_ thing," he spat, tossing it down on the floor.  He unbuttoned his trousers and hopped out of them, strangely comical.  His usual grace went somewhere else when it came to getting undressed.  "I tell you, I'm going to write a letter—"

Crowley blinked at him.  "You're _staring_."

Aziraphale swallowed, wishing he could fade into the mattress.

"Not that there's anything _wrong_ with staring," Crowley said, crawling onto the bed hands-first, predatory and beautiful, and naked.  He paused at Aziraphale's feet, tilting his head.  "Aziraphale?  If there's something you'd like to say, you'd better—"

"Change," Aziraphale croaked.

A confused expression crossed Crowley's features.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Er…ah… _change_ ," Aziraphale said, forcing out the words.  "Into—"

Crowley just stared at him, then touched Aziraphale's instep, for a moment lost in thought.  "Of all the ridiculous…" he murmured, then sighed.  "Close your eyes."

Aziraphale would have done it anyway.  Crowley's touch lingered, and _changed_.

The tongue-flicker came first, exactly where Crowley's finger had been.  Aziraphale sighed, forcing back the memory.  Not this time.  This wasn't then; it was _now_.  

Crowley slithered along his instep and curled around the arch of his foot, approaching his ankle from the opposite side.  The scales felt just as Aziraphale remembered, cool as silk, warming fast.  He fisted his hands in the sheet.  Crowley slid along his shin, a meandering river of soft, tickling snake-belly.  His tongue flicked at Aziraphale's knee.

Aziraphale laughed out loud.

What came next wasn't so much funny as mortifying; Crowley hissed and started up his thigh, slower than before, and Aziraphale couldn't stifle a desperate moan.  The serpent paused, gently nosing Aziraphale's hipbone.  And waited.

"I remember thisss," he said, fainter than a whisper.

"Yes," Aziraphale breathed, and touched him.

Crowley gave a soft hiss of pleasure and continued, sliding beneath Aziraphale's hand.  It was like water through his fingers, or a solid plume of smoke.  Crowley's head rested over his heart, tongue flicking out in time with Aziraphale's ragged breath.

"Is thisss what you see when you sssleep?"

Aziraphale pinched him.  "What do you _think_?"

Crowley hissed again, then glided up to Aziraphale's collarbone, tongue flicking out at his throat.  "Have you had enough?" he asked, whispering again.

"No," Aziraphale said, brought his hand up to cup Crowley's sleek head to his cheek.  

" _Ssss_ ," Crowley said, almost an intake of breath.  He flicked his tongue at Aziraphale's lips, then stretched himself along the length of Aziraphale's body.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured.  Smooth scales turned to smooth skin beneath his fingertips, and the serpent's tongue became warm, familiar breath.  Crowley was heavy stretched over him like that; Aziraphale squirmed to get comfortable.

"Do you _mind_?"

Crowley pressed his lips to Aziraphale's and smiled.

"This can," he murmured, "and _will_ be used against you, angel."

Aziraphale nodded faintly.  He could live with that.


End file.
